


Allies

by Wallfloweralways



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallfloweralways/pseuds/Wallfloweralways
Summary: As Daisy and Andy’s wedding draws closer, attention is split between the preparation and the sudden private life of one Thomas Barrow, who seems - at least for now - at last content with life. But when someone new arrives in search of a job, and takes a fancy to the daydreaming butler, will it be time to face the inevitable: Thomas Barrow doesn't get happy endings.Or will maybe, just maybe, adversary only prove how many allies lie in his corner.
Relationships: Anna Bates/John Bates, Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes, Daisy Mason/Andy Parker, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 24
Kudos: 118





	1. Monday

It wasn't long since the Royal visit that it became common knowledge within the house: if one could not find Mr Barrow he was either hidden away writing, or in London. It was unusual too, for they'd all known him to linger on his days off, never one to go home at Christmas, birthdays or New Years. Yet it was, that every month or so when it came - his days off, all grouped together - Thomas would pack a small trunk and catch a ride to the train station. More unusual still was the man who would return: the same dark hair, same blue eyes, but gait a little more sure, voice a little warmer, smile a little more sincere.   
Then, of course, there was the letter. Every Tuesday, stiff white paper folded into the neat little envelope, thick and straining to contain the essay inside. He would not read it at the table, as mostly everyone else did, but unravel it once - inadvertently giving the rest of them a glance at the immaculate, looped handwriting, covering both back and front of at least two sheets - before smiling softly, and tucking it all back together.   
Yes, it was a strange occurrence, this change in Thomas Barrow. These funny little rituals, as odd to witness as to describe, were noted widely as something, not to be mentioned but, mused at in silence; Clear to everyone, the signs of a great love affair. But who was to say that anything were afoot in the private life of the butler? If asked, they all knew nothing could be said of it. There would be no white wedding, as there would for Daisy and Andy, no teasing or gossiping or handing on of pretty clothes, as there was each time a young maid fell. Barrow did not get these things. He got mysterious weekends down country and short novellas through the post. And what harm, really, could be seen in that. 

By dawn on Monday, the week of the wedding, everyone had become so accustomed and endeared by these things, that when Andy entered - little cream envelope in hand - inquiring where Mr Barrow had gotten to, every head in the kitchen turned.  
"It's early." Anna exclaimed, looking up from her own writing. Up until this, the quiet rituals of pre-breakfast morning had been occurring: one of the unlucky kitchen maids had run up and down the servants hall, waking everyone with a neat wrap on their door; Mrs Patmore had grumbled her way into the kitchen, lain out their breakfast things and started the stove fires, stopping awhile affront it to warm her hands; the Bates had arrived, dropping of their young one on the way; tea had been started, fires were lit, and Mr Barrow had walked in and out to calmly inform everyone he was heading to the village and would only be back for breakfast service.   
In the doorway, Daisy swivelled mid step to stop herself almost hitting the back of her fiancé. "What’s early?"  
"Thomas' letter." Andy held it so she could see the neat print over the front.  
"What? It's here already? It's Monday, it never comes on Monday."  
The two of them wandered up to the table, practically conjoined as they peered at the little letter. Mr Bates frowned, reaching across to pour the footman some tea as he sat, “Perhaps they just sent it at a different time, doesn’t matter does it?”  
“I suppose it doesn’t,” Anna reasoned.  
“No, it clearly does. I mean, if someone gets a letter the same time every week, means whoever writes it can only send it the same time every week. Why would that change?” Daisy said. “Do you think everythin’s alright?”   
Finally looking up, Mrs Baxter - who had been sat silently at the table some time now, hurriedly sowing buttons at a pace which made Anna’s own thumbs ache - chuckled at the little huddle. “I’m sure it is. Anyway, I don’t think Mr Barrow would be best pleased at us discussing his personal affairs like this.”  
“I should think not.” Down the hall, Mrs Hughes shoes clicked on the stone and she appeared suddenly with such a stern look upon her, everyone around felt committed to an immediate pulse of guilt. Still, in her wake and over her shoulder, Mrs Patmore's eyes gleamed.   
"What's all this about?" Said the woman.  
"Thomas' letter arrived this morning." Anna said sheepishly.  
She looked shocked. "But it ain’t Tuesday yet, not unless I've overslept two nights through." She laughed, "You aren't married yet, are you Daisy?"  
The maid gasped, "Good lord, no." Which earned her a sharp nudge from the boy beside, before she added: "Not yet."   
"And you shan't ever be unless you make a move on breakfast, come now."  
"But the letter-"   
Mrs Hughes took the little envelope straight out of Andy's hands. She sounded determined in such a way the entire dining room knew discussion was over. "-Will be here for him when he comes back. Now move along child!"  
"I am to be married, Mrs Hughes, you can't call me that any longer."  
Mrs Patmore laughed, "You've got a good few days yet, pet." 

With that, the little gathering dispersed, at once aware of how busy they ought to be. Everyone was to work the week through except Daisy and Andy, who got off Saturday - the day before the wedding - and two weeks after that to enjoy it. Still, working or not, much was to be done: Mrs Patmore split her time between meals perfecting a menu, while Mrs Hughes and Anna took turns collecting flowers and food from the village shop; Miss Baxter was in and out of Daisy's dwellings, first bringing the dress and then perfecting it and Daisy herself kept a dizzying speed, taking every spare moment to slip away to the post office or to the farm, where the reception was to be held.   
That particular morning passed quickly. The house was prepared, fires lit, breakfast served and washed away, the old house shifting through the motions of morning as though nothing were afoot below deck. But of course, everyone who traveled up did so with a little more merry than usual; the world felt very much lighter, if a tad odd, for their little Daisy was to be married. _How the years had passed in Downton..._

  
Mrs Hughes kept the little cream envelope in her pocket all morning. It weighed quite the same as any letter, but there was a surprising feeling of heaviness in holding onto it; for all she’d bustled along the party that morning, even a woman of her respects paid attention to the gossip concerning people she cared about and The Letter arriving early, well that could only be very good or very bad. Of course, it was not long before her paths crossed with Thomas, who returned moments before the dishes were to be taken up for breakfast - she noted that he looked tired, a little more than usual - only from that moment on, any chance she had at catching him was interrupted. He’d want to look at it straight away and she couldn’t have him break down in front of the staff, not on the week of the wedding. Finally she decided, the little gap before lunch was as good as any.   
She found him in his office room, making himself useful with some sort of account, content enough. It took her by surprise these days how use to his being there she’d become, how much it fit, his bright eyes and knowing smirk behind the butler’s desk. She didn’t knock, for the door wasn’t closed. “Mr Barrow?”  
“Ah Mrs Hughes,” he looked up, noting her shutting it. “Anything the matter?”  
He lifted a brow and her hand found the pocket, thumbed along the letter’s edge a moment before pulling it free. For the first time she could see it properly and paused a second; along the front, thin, well-balanced lettering spelt out Thomas’ name and address, and on the back, the flap was emblazoned by the royal crest. “Well I’m hoping not, only this came for you this morning. Not with the other post mind.”  
“Why do you have it?” He frowned, extending an arm to take it.  
“Well,” she sighed, “the others were... fussing. I thought you might like to receive it in private.”  
“Fussing?”  
“Oh it was nothing. Just seems we are all use to it arriving on a Tuesday, like clockwork. I thought it might be important if your correspondent broke ritual.” She spoke tentatively.   
As he did most Tuesdays, Thomas paid her no more attention as he tore open the top... _one sheet, one side_. He held the thin, ivory paper in his worn, gloved hand, and it looked so utterly vulnerable there, like bird bone among lion’s teeth. At once Mrs Hughes felt as though she were looking in on a very private moment, quite out of place and unwelcome, but could not find strength to retreat as the butler’s pretty blue eyes roamed over the page. Back and forth, back and forth, becoming watery and then breaching a tear, right down the side of his face.  
“Oh Thomas, if it’s bad news I-”  
He held up his other hand, not turning from the page. With a wavering voice he cut her off. “No Mrs Hughes, no it’s not bad news. These aren’t tears of sorrow, I assure you.”  
His eyes hopped back to the top of the page and ran back over whatever was written upon it. She stood silently and looked down at him, watched him fold it back over gently, pinch along its seam, once, twice, to fit in his breast pocket. Once he’d done so, it occurred to her very quickly that something should be said, else they would become two frozen figures in a room. “I ought to go all the same, lunch will be soon should I ask Andy-“  
“No,” Again, he cut her off. “No I’ll be out in a minute. I just, uh, it’s news I’ve waited for is all.”

Thomas was true to his word, arriving for lunch service much the same as he would any other day, excluding the small smile playing over his lips. No one seemed to notice, as the kitchen staff moved in symbiosis - the maids pulsing in and out, Mrs Patmore in her usual frenzy as Daisy busied herself with the toppings, holding a conversation with Andy the length of it, dishes, glasses, cutlery circling up and back, like a great heart pumping - no one but Mrs Hughes, who watched in wonder. She kicked herself for being overcome with curiosity, but without effect.   
It were not as though the two of them hadn’t had their problems, in fact, at one time, she might have been heard to say she despised him, but time had moved on since then. The butler of Downton Abbey was a much more respected man than the footman who’d arrived ten years ago. As he’d said on his leaving once upon a time: then a boy, now a man - even supposed, beneath all the pain which had turned him ugly and unkind, possibly a good one - and to be truthful, most likely she would not have cared what mattered to that boy all those years ago, but she bloody well cared now. This may have been why, that afternoon before tea, she loitered in the hall outside his room.

“I had to call you,” Thomas’s voice sounded unrecognisably soft through the door, “I had to, just to check.” Faintly, the fuzzy sound of a response muffled through the wood answered back at him, unable to be understood from outside. “That’s an hour’s walk at most, and if you get- oh yes of course you got a motor you daft thing.”  
There was something very disturbing about the realisation that she was eavesdropping, for Elsie Hughes had never been one to condone it, but hearing Thomas’ voice ring out so merry and warm was indescribably comforting. He’d been so unhappy, so terribly unhappy those two years ago now, that it was impossible for her to tear herself from the door. _An hour’s walk?_ Presumably this was the same man that sent the letter - the letter _s_ \- and if so, the same man he went to see in London. So he would be an hour’s walk away soon, or perhaps not soon but at some time, from Downton. She wondered how she should feel about that...

“I’m sorry,” Came a tense, nervous voice from behind her, “only, you wouldn’t happen to be Mrs Hughes would you?”  
As if suddenly awake, she turned and straightened with a fright. When her brain caught up again, she smiled, the purposes of her trip now coming back to her. “Indeed I would, and you I presume are our _slightly_ late new kitchen maid.”  
The girl blushed furiously in the nature of a conscientious soul. Her face was pale, uneven with youth, and speckled by a flurry of freckles from cheek to cheek. She could not have been much older than Daisy, and with very plain clothes too, but her eyes were bright enough to call her charming, and her smile was settled and kind. Pretty, in the way which made you feel comfortable at once, with neatly pinned chestnut hair and rosy lips. “I could only get the train in today, and it ran late of all things, I tried to catch a cab but couldn’t- I suppose this is not a very good first impression.”  
Over Mrs Hughes’ shoulder, the looming figure of Barrow leaned against the now open door frame, prior conversation obviously closed.  
“You suppose correct.” The girl looked up at him, eyes flickering between admiration and fear, but to Mrs Hughes’ delight he smiled. “But seeing as it is your first day, we won’t hold it against you. I’m Mr Barrow, butler here at Downton. Now, you missed breakfast and lunch but if we can get you settled quickly you should be able to muck in with dinner. If you come with me, we were to our own tea now, and it’s as good a time as any to introduce you.”

As he had said, the inhabitants of Downton’s underbelly were beginning to congregate in the dinning hall, buzzing with chatter which died down immediately at their approach. Everyone who had not been, stood, as a smile stretched it’s way across Barrow’s face. Once more, Elsie pondered when this had become natural, no longer proper formality begrudgingly complied but an instinctive act of respect, as it was when Carson had walked in. “Right everyone, this is Miss Josephine Webster. She is to be the new kitchen assistant once Daisy has left to work on the Mason Farm, beginning on Sunday, but until then she will work as a kitchen maid and get to know the place.”  
Anna smiled kindly at the young girl, “Right you are Miss Webster, welcome to Downton.”  
“Thank you,” Josephine grinned widely, voice honey sweet, “I think I shall like it here, very much.”


	2. Tuesday

  
Tuesday morning started as any morning did for Thomas Barrow, with a thump on the door and the sudden realisation that his feet were cold. When he was a child, he’d discovered the habit of pulling his sheets up about his head, to muffle the sound of his father’s boots on the wooden panelling above. Not angry necessarily, but echoing in his little basement room, and reminiscent of a time when it had been, and coming closer too. _Coming to get him, to hold him down, to..._  
He pulled the blanket down and his feet up, cocooning. With his good hand he reached across to the bedside table, grabbing hold of the little draw and opening it, rooting around until he found the edge of his glove. He didn’t always put it on first thing, sometimes he got changed and watched it work the buttons of his shirt, but today he’d had the dream again. The dream where he’s in the trenches, sleeve soaked through with blazing red, screaming out for someone to help yet no one will come. He claws with his good hand, clamps the other to his chest - where the crimson spreads and spreads, seeping a dark, bloody circle around his heart - and hauls himself up, begins to run, but finds no one. _No one’s there. No one is coming._ From behind him: the **thud thud thud** of his father’s boots; his real nightmares merging into one horrid night terror.   
“Mr Barrow?” Andy’s voice broke the trance. He sat up, sheet pooling around his hips, and blinked the sleep from his eyes. Another thump. “Mr Barrow, I’m sorry but I really must ask you something.”  
Thomas rubbed his good hand over his eyes and shifted his shirt collar, _presentable enough._ “Uh, yes, come in.”  
The door opened and Andy’s head popped through, his hair still a mass of untamed curls atop it. By the look of his own collar, he was still in bed things. “I wondered if I might ask you for the afternoon off. I know I might be pushing my luck, what with the fortnight-”  
“Well, I agree with you there,” Barrow croaked out, voice still fresh but not unkind in the face of the nervous boy. The old him, who’s bitterness at the whole affair still raged somewhere like coals glowing, would have snapped that this wedding was proving to be a nuisance, may even have denied him. However, their was much the old him would have done that he didn’t anymore. “But go on, I suppose. What’s an afternoon hey?”  
Andy’s smile was so rewardingly large it verged on worrying, taking up half of his face. He squeezed out a few, very pleased, words of thanks before backing out of the room without another glance at the butler’s tired eyes. 

He still had the stupid grin at full mast when Barrow made it down to the servants hall, standing with extra gusto among the rest. Thomas greeted them all pleasantly and reminded himself that good things were ahead, the nightmare returning for one night meant nothing in the face of that. A point further proven by the arrival of daily post to the table.  
“Your letter came, Mr Barrow.” Said Anna, placing down the little envelope and rounding the back of his chair as he sat. It was as it always had been since they had started the little ritual: a cream white envelope with the King’s crest embossed on the flap and his own name spelt carefully over the front. A new constant. Thomas liked constants - had said as much to Richard that very first visit - for in a life with so little security, to run lines of consistency through time, through shifting health and relationships and jobs, like guide wires supporting it, felt a little like control. That was why they sent them this way, one letter a week. A commitment. He could compose parts every night and never worry about having nothing to say, because there was always time to accumulate news. And then, when Richard’s arrived, he’d save it in his little drawer and bring it out by candle light to read the funny parts, or clever parts, or kind parts, over before he slept. All week he mulled over the words, revisited and thought about them. Richard always wrote so beautifully. It was a system that worked deliciously well, but he would admit it was nice to see that the short news excerpt he received would not displace his proper letter. Such the case, he supposed he could allow two this week.  
Coming back from his train of thought, he smiled at the Lady’s maid. “Thank you Anna.”  
She returned the smile kindly, but something in her eyes flared up, a tangible spark of curiosity. It was at this point that he remembered Mrs Hughes words the day before: “We are all use to it coming on Tuesday-”. _So it had made an impression? Interesting._ He wasn’t sure anyone would mention it - for all they stared at him - but then Daisy rounded the corner with some eggs.   
“Thank you Daisy.”   
“Is that your letter?” She replied hurriedly, crease forming between her brows.   
“Yes, it just arrived.” He said.  
The crease deepened, “But you had one yesterday?”  
“Come now Daisy,” Mrs Hughes scolded, as gently as she could, “I’m not sure that’s any of your concern.”  
Looking down the table he saw several faces turn away, the group around him all shuffled uncomfortably and Daisy’s cheeks went red with the realisation she’d spoken out of turn. He felt bad but also impatient with the girl, _why could she not read a room?_ Thomas forced as gentle a smile as he could - which looked slightly pained on his face - and tried to remind himself that not every child grew up watching their words. He turned his attentions back to the letter as the girl hurried to her own seat dejectedly, ripping open the top as he always did and freeing no less than three sheets. As always he scanned the top line. 

Dearest Thomas,

All is well at the palace, feel free to send your letter here. 

This was another constant. This line upholstered the start of every letter Richard had sent him, a sign that their correspondence was safe and that he was welcome to return it. It was also the thing which Thomas checked for before re-administrating the envelope and inserting it into his blazer, each time. He smiled to himself as he did so that morning, knowing the weight of it could not possibly be felt and feeling it anyway, before he started on his eggs.   
To his right, the Bates couple recommenced their party’s conversation, flitting from themes of politics to house work and then the upcoming wedding.  
“I’lll go into the village again today, Mrs Patmore needs the last of the icing and Lady Mary said she could spare me this afternoon.” Said Anna. Thomas nodded wordlessly.   
“Oh aye, we should think about starting on it soon.” Daisy said, much recovered and re-enthused.   
“No we shall not,” Interjected Mrs Patmore, “Not till Thursday or it will never carry, and I am not giving over my kitchen just yet. Anyway, there’s still too much to do at the farm.”   
Andy nodded along and spoke through a mouthful of toast. “Clearing the room today.”  
“When will you do that?” Daisy asked him, confused.  
“Oh Mr Barrow gave me the afternoon off.”  
Anna smiled at Thomas, all warm and sunny. “That’s nice of you.”  
And really it was nice of him, very nice of him, given that he’d be managing a good deal by himself while Andy was away a whole fortnight. That was roughly 42 meals with Mr Moseley - not that he was counting or anything - which surely no man should be asked to do. He didn’t say any of that however, instead he just nodded again and muttered a simple, “It _is_ his wedding day, I guess.”

Once staff breakfast had cleared and multiple bells had rung - claiming Anna, Mr Bates and Miss Baxter upstairs and sending Daisy and Mrs Patmore to the kitchen with the maids - Thomas made his way to the butler’s pantry, to throw himself heavily into the chair. His body ached for some reason, ached deep in the walls of his chest and in the bones of his arms and legs. It was weird for him to be so... unsettled, especially after yesterday. He cast his eyes over to the telephone and remembered the conversation he’d had with Richard:

_“I had to call you,” He’d blurted out the minute the man had picked up, “I had to, just to check.”_  
_Over the phone, Richard’s voice sounded tinny and hollow, but it washed over Thomas with much the same warmth as in real life. “Oh hello stranger,” he chuckled, “I’m glad to see you got my letter. I can’t believe it myself really but yes, it’s a little place just beyond the rectory - of all things - and they want less rent than my dwellings here.”_  
_Thomas felt he could almost cry. He knew the house, a little brick cottage, with an apple tree out front, he’d passed it before on the way to church. He could picture it now: locking up and turning into the cold air, his long strides on the gravel, heading home. Home, could he have one beyond Downton’s walls? It felt mythical. “That’s an hour’s walk at most, and if you get-”_  
_“I had money saved too,” His lover responded, reading his mind. “Enough for one of those second hand cars down on Grant Street.”_  
_Thomas smiled into the receiver, “Yes of course you got a motor you daft thing, how long did that take?”_  
_The knowing laugh down the line rang like church bells. How could this ever be wrong, Barrow thought, how could being this happy be wrong?_

The memory spread warmth through Thomas’s chest, enough to finally push out the remaining cold of the nightmare. It was strange for it to have come on such a night, when he’d head to bed so high-spirited; after the war, when everyone was still jumpy and uncomfortable back in their normal clothes, it had played on loop through the hours of sleep he managed, but since then it took a truly awful day to draw it out. When he’d worked at the hospital he spoke to many men who screamed in their sleep, seeking some sort of unity for once, but he wasn’t like them, not really. He was not so fractured by the cruelty of life; Thomas Barrow had been at war before. He didn’t dream of the friends he’d seen fall limp against him, or of the sound of bombs, chainmail and falling casings. He’d dreamt of an empty trench, a growing circle of red, and his father. Over and over and over and over. Sometimes he’d move quickly and see a flash of scarlet on his sleeve which didn’t exist on closer inspection. He hadn’t told anyone that yet.   
Inside the right hand draw of the old oak desk, there was a pile of writing paper. Suddenly courageous, Thomas opened it and grabbed a sheet in his gloved hand, procuring a pen from the left. With a shaky breath, he began to write the words:

Dearest Richard,  
All is well at Downton, feel free to send your letter here.   
Tonight I had a drea-

The bell rang in the hall: they were up. Abandoning his papers on the desk reluctantly, Thomas made for the pantry door with a final check of his breast pocket. Where Richard’s letter pressed against his heart he felt a reassuring heaviness, like a hand placed on his chest, keeping him on the ground. 

The day itself ran more smoothly than the night, with very little demanding the energy of the staff beyond breakfast. It appeared that Branson and Lady Mary left after eating to take their gaggle of children into the grounds, and therefore required little more than sandwiches for their lunch, in light of this Lord and Lady Grantham excused themselves also, to go eat with the dowager at her home, and so ceased the necessity for lunch service at all. Instead, the staff had their own meal and made themselves busy in other respects.   
“Right, Mr Barrow,” Andy said, wondering into the servant’s hall dressed in casual clothes, “I’m off if that’s alright.”  
From his seat by the fire Thomas nodded, not breaking eye contact with the paper he was reading. “Right you are Andy, be back before dinner. Can’t carry it all myself.”  
The boy nodded happily and padded out into the hallway, leaving the butler all alone. Distantly the chatter of maids swelled in the kitchen, as he reached into his jacket to retrieve the envelope, dropping the paper to his lap. Best not to open it now, he thought, else anyone could come in and inquire about its contents, but his will was not as strong as his logic. Thomas discarded the envelope carefully onto the newspaper and wriggled out the folded sheets inside. Three full sheets, my my, had Richard been busy.

Dearest Thomas,

All is well at the palace, feel free the send your letter here.

Presently, I am sat in the corner booth of the delightful La Cafè du Palais, ‘delightful’ here being entirely ironic ...

Richard’s letter was as usual, incredibly entertaining. Of course the main news - that his mother had left him a fairer sum in her will than expected, speeding up his plans to move rather entirely - was no longer news to Thomas but his stomach still flipped at the thought of it. It had been a topic of conversation for some time, firstly that Richard was considering leaving service and then that he might enjoy leaving London all together, but only in the last few weeks had his moving to Yorkshire been raised. It had all felt very dreamy and far away until Mrs Ellis had died - a sad yet not unexpected occasion, which had seen his lover very subdued but not unsettled - leaving behind her what appeared to be a surprising amount of savings to her son. Along with his own money, which he confessed to have been putting aside for some time at this point, it became a reality increasingly that Thomas may be able to say goodbye to long train journeys by the end of that month. Dozy with happiness, he ran the last few lines of the letter through in his head.

  
I feared perhaps you might be uneasy with the plans to move so close, but I should like for it to be more than a home for me. I could never stand living alone.   
I trust all is well at the Abbey, and that you are looking after yourself, eating and sleeping as you promised (yes I do insist on checking Thomas, any complaints will be skim-read). If all goes well for us then I shall see you very soon.

Yours,  
R.

His brows knitted together as he examined that last part, resting on the bit about sleeping. _Should he tell him?_ If he told him about the nightmare, he might well have to tell him about his father and that didn’t seem at all possible. Not that there was much to tell, his mind reasoned, many sons of angry fathers survived childhood without becoming the frightened little boy he’d been when he came to Downton. He wasn’t sure he could face Richard seeing him as the coward he was. 

“Alright, Mr Barrow?” Anna bustled into the room with a basket on each arm, ladened to the brim with ingredients for at least a cake and a half. Her face was rosy around the edges and her hair finely twisted back into a high bun - pretty, he noticed. Suddenly aware of the open letter, he found the envelope quickly and reassembled it. She watched him tuck the whole ordeal into his jacket with a calculating look. “How is he?”  
He blanked slightly, recovering more guarded. “Well I won’t insult you by pretending not to know what you mean.” She nodded. “He’s fine. A lot of news.”  
“Good, I hope?” She dared.   
“Very.”   
The woman grinned, turning her attention back to the baskets on the table before her. “I’m glad. I should like to see you happy Thomas.”  
He smiled softly, and felt he almost meant it when he said: “I just might be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite so happy with my writing in this chapter but I wanted to push ahead and I can’t really work out what I dislike, anyway much more to come and hopefully a little more eloquent haha


	3. Wednesday Morning

No one was in Thomas Barrow’s room when the thump came on the door, usually the sound which woke him. In fact, no one had been there for quite some time. The man who should by all accounts have been there, was however several stories down, back curved into the embrace of his usual chair by the fire in the servants hall, and had been for several hours. Positioned on his knee was the book which he’d discarded nearing an hour ago in favour of staring at the flames slowly blackening fire wood before him - eating it up in rather the same way his thoughts had begun to his mind - and in his good hand he held the glove which ought to be covering the other. Aside from the exposed appendage, he was dressed for the day.   
The dream must have lasted a mere number of minutes, Mr Moseley had informed him that dreams often took seconds from beginning to end no matter how long we perceived them to be, yet it had felt like a lifetime. He’d run till his mouth tasted as though it were full of nails, and his eyes were blurry with tears, and his legs were wobbly, giving way with each step. He’d screamed for the pain running down his arm to stop, till it was no longer voluntary, till the sound tore itself up through him and filled his mouth with blood. That’s how he’d woken, in the very infancy of Wednesday morning, with blood in his mouth from biting his tongue. Another habit he’d learnt as a child, to prevent himself from waking his brother in the night. That’s how he’d ended up here.   
With a sigh of reluctance, Thomas swiped his good palm over his eyes to knock the doziness from them, to little avail. In doing so he lifted the glove with it and suddenly remembered taking it off at some point. He looked at the mottled skin, the valleys and peaks of scar tissue surging out from bullseye. His real black mark, only now slivering over. Barrow wasn’t stupid, he knew clearly why the echoes of his father’s boots ricocheted in his mind lying in those trenches, dull thuds amid the whistles of bullets seeking purchase across a muddy sea, but what he didn’t understand is why it had returned now of all times. Shouldn’t he be happy?  
Cowardice. It all come down to cowardice, when he was no more than four feet with his father’s hand cradling his jaw, such fury in his eyes Thomas thought he might kill him just with that. That’s what it came down to, that night lying up against the mud wall with his lighter held up above its reaches. He supposed he’d just been born a coward, simple as. There was nothing he could do. No matter how hard Thomas Barrow tried he’d never been able to rid himself of fear, to set his jaw and straighten up like his father had told him.

_“Now boy,” Hot cigarette breathe twisted into words above his head, “straighten your back, that’s it, stand tall.” Little Tommy strained his neck in an effort to elongate himself, he wobbled slightly with the weight in his hand, dragging one side down. “Now, breathe out- jaw in boy- and lift it up to- that’s it- no higher than y’ shoulder now. Stand tall, be strong son, breathe in and with a squeeze...”_   
_The little boy felt a rattle in his rib cage as the breath ran in and through him, a chattering rising in his mind. He looked at the little red mark on the barrel, no more than a yard ahead, which blinked back at him with a daring gaze. Just do it. It’s only a gun. It’s only a trigger. It’s only your dad..._   
_The sound was white and heavy, wrapping him in nothingness even when he opened his eyes. He felt the weight of the weapon in his hand leave him and something close around the back of his neck, he felt the pain even before he hit the ground, grass in his ear and his nose and his mouth, and cried out. Weight on top of him, his father’s knee pressed into his back, pushing that one bitter breath singing out his lungs. He wasn’t sure what he’d gotten wrong this time - he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear enough to be told - but he knew he couldn’t get up when the weight finally shifted. He was going to lie there on the earth until he became part of it, until he was a little patch of grass on the field behind his house. Somehow he just knew he’d broken his rib cage, because not for the life of him could he catch his breath._

Eight years old, that was it, he reckoned, that was the first time Thomas had truly wanted to die. He’d remembered it the first night on the front line, that day with his father. It hadn’t been the worst - his father had _left_ him on the ground, for starters, and able to walk back into the house - but for some reason, at the first call of fire over his head, that was the memory that had blinded him. It was the overwhelming sensation of letting go, giving up.  
The sound of footfalls echoing from the staircase had his thoughts receding, replaced suddenly by reality. Quickly he returned the glove to its rightful place, pulling up his cuffs in time to face Daisy - who had returned to living in Downton for the time being - turning into the hall with a smile. She looked at him quizzically.  
“Alright Mr Barrow?”  
The filter of charm and smirk seeped progressively into his features as he adjusted to the morning light. “Just fine Daisy, thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware this is horrifically short and I’m really sorry for the slow updates, I’ve been struggling with a mental health issue increasingly and I haven’t written at all during this period. Hopefully more from now, I have it written but not too proud of it yet. Hope everyone’s staying safe xx

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, more to come already in the writing :)  
> Very open to constructive criticism - I’ve never written group scene dialogue and I’m not sure I’m any good at it yet - and comments on the whole are super appreciated xx


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